


Paragon

by Accuni



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Almost a pwp, Angst, M/M, Might be a bit ooc, Post-War, Relationship Study, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, established relationship but not really, they have a difficult relationship, with some feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-10-10 02:51:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17417636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Accuni/pseuds/Accuni
Summary: It’s not just the current events now, it’s everything. Megatron knows that when one thing bothers Optimus, everything from the past few million years will come crashing down on his helm again and he’s struggling more and more every time to carry that weight.The war is over and yet, Megatron still feels like he's fighting something.





	Paragon

**Author's Note:**

> Well this took longer to finish than I anticipated. I went for a oneshot drabble and ended up with some feelsy angst, whatever! I just had a simple idea and wanted to run with it for these two to write something quick since I haven't updated my main fic yet. And to be self-indulgent ofc.
> 
> Can be whatever continuity. And it's a really watered-down aspect of post-war, I realize, but that isn't important. :)

 

 

 

Post-war time meant Cybertron was on the cusp of rebuilding and fortifying suitable life on the marred surface of their planet. And that was not without its own struggles. The great upheaval and rework of government down to each and every substructure is pertinent in creating their new society. A relative job done by the very mech who fought to achieve it’s peace. There was no time for rest after the smoke cleared, it seemed.

As to which side won, it’s not difficult to tell from the great new structures and systems adorning the red badge- hope to many mech, while others were now overshadowed, cast aside. And that was not without its own struggles.  
  
Optimus is always there before Megatron. They never dare have this arrangement the other way around, as it’d be seen as suspicious for Optimus, and Megatron wouldn’t gain that air of control outside of his own environment. It’s not exactly easy for the biggest-named Decepticon to roam the streets of New Iacon.

 

* * *

 

Sometimes Optimus arrives without even calling ahead, yet Megatron still knows what to do.  He wouldn’t be one to turn down the meeting that benefits them both. And Megatron knows these meetings are safe, that he’d never expect Optimus to blindside this way- it’s not in his nature to. He’d want a fair fight; to some degree- their current state of political affairs says otherwise.  
Megatron expects him to be in his personal office when he often finds the front entrance unlocked- Optimus’ way of letting him know he’s here. Only once has Optimus set the signal, and left. Megatron never knew why, but he never pushed for a reason. Their relationship was barbed enough.  
  
Tonight is the usual, Megatron assumes, as he returns to his sparse, sectioned apartment and finds his office door ajar. Optimus didn’t call him ahead this time, either. He usually assumes Optimus is feeling extra ashamed the evening of their arrangement, or extra needy. It’s often a mix of both.  
  
He takes his time in the main room of the apartment, setting data pads and empty cubes away- making sure to make some noise so Optimus knows for sure he’s here- and grabbing Energon from the dispenser for a few sips. If Optimus is here, he’ll need the energy.  
  
Finally, he approaches his office door and slides it the rest of the way open, knowing the dim light will silhouette his frame. He sees it reflect off the edges of blue and red armor and smirks to himself.  
“Back so soon? I feel as thought we met only a few days ago, Optimus.” Megatron notes almost sarcastically. He never uses _Prime_ here, it would ruin the whole game.  
There’s no answer from the frame leaning against the edge of his desk. Blue optics are fixed onto the floor, providing a small beam of light in the dark room.  
Megatron slowly takes a few steps forward, those weathered pedes heavy and imposing.  
“Did you refuel?” It’s trivial, and the question isn’t part of the act but he needs to lay it out before he ends up with an unconscious political figure in his apartment and the authorities questioning him even more than they do on a daily basis.  
“Yes.” Comes the voice, a soft murmur. Megatron notices his battle mask is up. He’s not kept it on for long when there together any time before.  
  
“Mm.” Megatron makes himself sound distracted- uninterested, and walks around to the back of the desk, finishing off his Energon and placing the cube down on the surface with a small plink. He leans both hands on the desk as he watches Optimus’ armor shift slightly- uneasy, it reads, and wonders where to start this tonight.  
  
“And what brings you here, to the home of the most despised _Decepticon_?” He spits out he last word with all the force of a slur. That’s what it’s become at this point, to that which once wore the name with pride. He knows it will get under his plating, really drive home the shame Optimus finds in this whole affair.  
There’s no answer again.

  
Megatron stares at the back of Optimus’ obnoxiously blue helm, watching his audials twitch ever so slightly back and forth. He isn’t sure whether it’s really bad tonight, or if Optimus is taking a while to get into that headspace he usually takes up. The _Optimus_  here is not the same one that directs the masses day by day- the _savior_ to their race.  
Megatron almost regrets the sick amusement he gets from seeing Optimus in a state like this, while the rest of the universe has no idea how much he can break him down. He also isn’t sure which “Optimus” is the facade, and which is the front he puts on for his mechs. He thinks maybe they’ve shifted back and forth over the years, there’s no way of telling.  
  
“OPTIMUS!” Megatron suddenly shouts as he slams his palm flat against the desk. He sees the other mech jump to standing and turn around in the darkness. He knows he needs to take this a different way if both of them are going to get something out of this encounter, but tonight seems like a special case anyway.  
“I...-“  Optimus opens his mouth, but only static comes out. Megatron’s crimson stare is hard and demanding, as always. He couldn’t leave Megatron unanswered.  
“My apologies, it’s not been going well today, old friend...”  
  
For a split-second, Megatron thinks he feels actual worry in his processor. _Irrelevant._  
He shakes it off, and steps closer to Optimus, making sure his sneer is visible to the other.  
“What did I say about calling me that? We are not on the same level, Optimus. Don’t try to belittle me to your state.”  
Optimus drops his gaze to the floor once again, shifting his pedes and resting a hand on the desk.  
“I’m sor-“  
“Don’t. Apologize.” Megatron stops him, and watches his helm drop. He tilts his own helm, leaning in and getting his face close to Optimus’ mask.  
“You think mech see you as STRONG? Saying sorry every time you slightly inconvenience someone? You’re not owning up to your mistakes, you’re just making excuses all the time.”  
  
He hears Optimus let out a shaky exvent behind his mask, sees his armor sag a bit. He’s getting there.  
“Answer me; why did you come here, Optimus?”

Megatron’s optics never leave his face. He’s so close, the warmth of his plating is nearly palpable.  
Optimus still hasn’t met his gaze, idly running a finger over the cold metal of the desk, trying to ground himself to answer- to bring himself out of his own mind for a moment. He shifts a pede and moves as if to touch Megatron, who inches away. He won’t grant Optimus this freedom yet, knows he wouldn’t want it to be this easy anyway.

Leaning his weight to the side, Megatron clenches his own hand into a fist next to Optimus’ twitching fingers.

“ _Well_?” he probes. “You either answer answer me, or the arrangement is off. You know this.”

Megatron nearly feels the broken shudder from his counterpart, knows he’s trying so hard to keep his strong composure. Even now, that side of Optimus is fighting himself. Truth is, the facade was broken the moment he decided to let himself into Megatron’s place, and they both know it- that’s what make these encounters what they are.

“I-it’s not easy anymore.” Optimus answers, keeping his optics unfocused at a spot on the desk.

“You say that every time.” Megatron says flatly.

Megatron sees the metal between his optics crease in an unreadable emotion, Optimus struggling in his own mind. He won’t let himself think too much on how it bothers him that he can’t tell what Optimus is feeling.

“The new senate has been very critical of me, M-” Optimus stops himself. His voice is low. “They expect too much of my leadership. Haven’t I done enough already?”

Eyeing him still, Megatron listens as he vocalizes his distress, closing the distance between them once again. It’s not just the current events now, it’s everything. Megatron knows that when one thing bothers Optimus, everything from the past few million years will come crashing down on his helm again and he’s struggling more and more every time to carry that weight.

But he doesn’t actually care for the reasons now. He’s heard it before. He wants Optimus to get out those surface grievances, wants to work his way down to his very spark like he does every time. It feels good, reaching the lowest points of his enemy- _once_ enemy.

Megatron shifts and lightly places a hand on the other’s wrist, barely feeling the twitching of his wiring, the warmth of his frame. Not warm enough.

“Why are you _really_ here, Optimus?”

“I don’t know.”

“You DO know. Don’t waste my time and lie to me.” Megatron is raising his voice, and puffs out his chest armor in faux intimidation, hearing the edges clink as it touches Optimus’ broad plating. He angles his silver helm near the other’s twitching audials. The next words are a growl.

“You can’t cope without this. Tell me.” he says and not a moment later, “You need this from me, _Orion._ ”

 

That breaks something in him, and Optimus is surging against Megatron, his body sagging, hand coming up to grasp the other’s upper arm.

“Please…” he groans out, already venting hot against Megatron’s helm.

Megatron just growls under his breath again, showing that facade of disdain. This is the Optimus that he enjoys deep down in his blackened slag of a spark. A small pleasure in his ever-darkening world.

Megatron grabs him by the chin, hard, and mashes their lips together, denta instantly clinking together. There’s no gentleness in the way he kisses Optimus, how he doesn’t let him reciprocate, the way he grabs at his chest and forces him back over the desk, until he’s bent backward and Megatron is between his spread legs. Optimus always welcomes him easily, and it spurs Megatron on harder. He lets that dark part of him take over, that part that always desired Optimus like this, pliant and ready to take whatever he gives.

Grabbing him hard by the hips, Megatron pulls their bodies almost fully flush together once they’re firmly on the desk. Optimus meets his gaze for the rough jostling, but not out of surprise. Megatron knows he enjoys this, he figured it out the first time he dared to push his rival around and was met with no resistance. He also knows that once he gets Optimus to grant him access to his array, he’ll already be pliant and ready for him. It’s intoxicating in the way he can have Optimus like this now, that he’ll choose to _come to him_ for this, when all they’ve done is fight each other over the span of millions of years.

And maybe it was just that- after all the equally matched fights and the frustration and stalemates, there wasn’t any other mech either could trust to _tolerate_ all that buried baggage they pit at each other.

 

The red mech is breathing heavily, almost in a panicked way. Megatron knows better, knows how to read the tells his counterpart shows.

“My, Optimus, you’re rather... reserved tonight.” He remarks. Optimus meets his optics a moment, a quick flick of color up and away. He doesn’t say anything.

_Quiet, once again._

Megatron leans over the other’s chest to bury his face against his neck, invent the unique scent of him. He wraps his lips around a throat cable, pulling and sucking. He feels Optimus tilt his helm back even more, offering, and Megatron rumbles in approval.

“Mmm. How come you’re being so easy this evening, hm?” he murmurs against the other’s neck. Optimus’ cables tense a second, and go back to slack. There’s an aberration in the magnetic field surrounding him, and Megatron feels it where his is meshed against. Some detached sensation that won’t let Optimus slip fully into his own mind, and it’s making it worse for him. Megatron doesn’t dwell on it, not just yet. Better to play this out a little longer- that’s what always wins over his unlikely partner.

Sucking another cable into his mouth, Megatron presses the bulk of his body down harder, making Optimus’ hips go flat against the desk and a leg come up to frame Megatron’s dark hip.

Megatron roughly grabs that leg, running his hand up the blue playing and fondling the wiring in the gaps of his calf. It makes Optimus gasp, he feels it against his neck, and tries to pull his leg away. Megatron only grips it rougher, pulling it flush to his pelvic plating. He really did wish to just enjoy the feel of such a powerful frame under his mercy without grappling each time- it’s nice to overpower a mech with ease once in a while, even if Megatron _did_ crave a bit of that rush of fighting like they used to.

Biting a neck cable, he lets out a low subsonic growl.

“Come now, don’t be like that. Lend me your trust and we’ll both get something out of tonight.” He leans back and flashes that classic _Decepticon_ _grin_ he knows melts Optimus’ processor when they’re together like this.

Except, when Megatron glances down, he’s not greeted with the usual _want_ that Optimus shows at this point.

Optimus still has his mask on, optics almost too bright. He’s looking at the adjacent wall, arms gone limp at his sides.

Megatron allows his face to slightly twist; disappointed, perhaps. Total submission may not be entirely Optimus’ nature, but Megatron was sure it was welcomed  when he sought him out.

He wasn’t sure what was different this time, their meeting had been going the route it usually does, more or less. Optimus hadn’t asked for anything to be changed, hadn’t mentioned anything different. Not...really.

 

With a final hard once-over of his counterpart’s body, Megatron raises himself up off him completely, standing up straight between spread legs again. Optimus looks at him, blue optics flickering a moment. He doesn’t look uncomfortable, Megatron notes, but something isn’t quite there. Ironically, Megatron feels too much of a stranger to ask what’s different- what’s truly ailing him.

Instead, without thinking he extends a dark hand to reach Optimus’ forearm, and pulls.

“Come.”

 

* * *

 

This normally wouldn’t happen- hasn’t _ever_ happened. And Megatron isn’t sure why he’s still allowing his body to take him, and Optimus, to his personal berthroom. They’d never dared take their interface there, it’s always the desk, and sometimes the outer room sofa if they ended up in an argument early and the subsequent light grapple.

Megatron feels distant too as he shuts the door behind Optimus. It feels as though he’s sealing something he isn’t ready for. His spark feels heavy.

 _Nonsense,_ he assures himself.

He take a moment to steady his processor, and turns to Optimus. The sight of his counterpart sitting on the edge of the sparse berth is one that makes him freeze a moment.

Optimus is slightly reclined, leaning on his hands, helm tilted toward the floor. He almost looks demure in a way, and Megatron has to stop the wince making it’s way to his faceplates from the odd feeling he got in his spark.

Stepping up to the berth, he kneels between Optimus’ legs again, one knee propped on the padding. It’s not entirely unlike when they were at the desk. Megatron reaches down to cup the side of his blue helm in a insincere gesture of caring.

“Are you ready to cooperate now?” He asks in a low voice. Optimus meets his gaze, opens his intake to say something but stops. Megatron raises a brow ridge in question.

“Go on.”

“I… I do need you, Megatron.” Optimus nearly gasps out. He surprises Megatron by pulling him down by a shoulder so their bodies are flush once again. He plants a hand on Megatron’s back, just feeling the thrum of his engine from the movement. It’s the most pathetic space he’s been in and yet he can’t help himself. Optimus knows that it’s only _Orion_ here now. “It’s been so hard lately, I’ve had no solace. Any other mech are hesitant to aid me.” He says with a pained voice, and then with a heavy vent, “Help me forget. Please.”

Megatron’s optics _flash_ at such disclosure. He feels himself heat up a few marks. He can’t stop himself when he leans down to kiss Optimus’ neck cables again, hungry. He moves his mouth to Optimus’ jaw, cheek vents, but not his mouth.

 

“Mm you know just what to say.” He chuckles against the ring of an audial, and plants a shy kiss there. Optimus flinches, but his plating is settling.

Megatron’s own frame rumbles as Optimus spreads his legs even more to welcome the bulk of his enemy between them.

“There’s a good mech.” He says in that baritone of a voice. “This is how you get places. Following orders.”

Optimus lets out a small whine as Megatron continues licking at the cables and wiring. His hand scrabbles restlessly on Megatron’s back, moving down to grasp at the sides of his pelvic plating.

“And you know you’re _so_ good at listening to me. You just like to be tough, don’t you?”

And while he speaks, Megatron is shifting a hand to grope at the glass panes of Optimus’ chest, slipping a finger under the ridge of armor. And Optimus does gasp then when he tweaks a few wires there, shifting his body a bit, which has Megatron smirking and he rewards him by rubbing around the glass more firmly, watching his face for those delicious reactions.

He may be his long time rival, but Megatron won’t argue against the fact that all the noises and expressions Optimus makes during these trysts really turn over his engine. The way Optimus grabs at him when he’s getting heated up, or how his breath is heavy against their plating in the intensity of interface. It’s the heavy carnal affirmations that stirs Megatron’s own array every time. He _wants_ to dominate, he wants Optimus under his control, and he’ll never get it any other way.

For the both of them, this is the best they can get.

When Megatron pushes his heating pelvis against Optimus and grinds down hard and harsh, they both groan. He shoves against the mech underneath him, relishing in that pressured heat and the solid build of his partner. Megatron would never let him top, but he did appreciate a mech of his own strength in the berth. Perhaps one day, a better one than this, they’ll grapple and he’ll give Optimus that illusion of power for just a bit.

 

While rubbing their panels together, Megatron teases fingers from both of his hands under Optimus’ chest plating, each taking wires and pinching. He pulls at them with the bit of give, and Optimus lets out a weak cry, hips bucking to clang against his. “Ahh…!”

Megatron only grins wider, jerking the wires in little movements. He doesn’t always tease much, but it’s so entertaining when done right.

“There’s the sounds I like to hear,” he rumbles and with another small tug of wires, he taunts “are you gonna open up for me?”

Legs twitching against Megatron’s sides, Optimus’ venting hitches at the pull. His chest has had many alterations over the years, many mechanisms taken and added, and it’s sensitive at points. He looks down to Megatron’s hands under the lip of plating and has to shutter his optics as his panel clicks open- just the valve panel. His last surrender to Megatron.

Megatron nearly purrs, always captivated by the sight of this particular array. “Good mech.” he says, pulling up from Optimus’ frame completely after a few more teases. He disengages from the other’s legs and leans back, and Optimus doesn’t need to be told to move further back up the berth so Megatron can fully loom over him now.

Optimus’ hands are fidgeting, placed near his hips, and his legs are splayed even wider as Megatron joins him on the berth. His valve is fully on display, a bit of lubricant glistening the lips. He’s aware how it spurs Megatron on.

In an instant, Megatron is over him, a hand on his chest while the other arm braces himself on the padding. That hand on his chest slides down to rub at sections of plating, and ends at the juncture of his legs, barely ghosting over the edges of his valve.

Burying his face back at the edge of Optimus’ helm, he traces the damp lips of his valve, and slides a finger in with ease. It’s not much, and Optimus doesn’t react at first. It’s not worth teasing too much when at this point he knows Optimus wants him so bad, so he almost-gently inserts another finger, and immediately begins sliding them both in and out a few times.

A hand comes up to grip at his silver helm, and he hears Optimus make a breathless noise, moving his hips against the hand.

“Mmm, so responsive,” Megatron murmurs against an audial, “I know you’re only like this for me. Out there, you don’t give them a glimpse of anything. I know how stoic you can be, that facade of strength is such a _show_ …”

Optimus lets out a small noise at that, hips twitching more into the touches, getting more slick. Megatron adds another finger, and is moving his wrist in smooth circles, teasing some inner nodes with occasional harder thrusts. Lubricant is beginning to coat parts of his hand, and he feels the heat coming off the surrounding metal of the array. He leans up to one of those long blue audials, barely brushing his lips against the sensitive structure,

“It’s so easy to get you wet, Optimus” and the name vibrates along that frequency-sensitive part of his helm. “This is your only escape isn’t it? The only time you can forget the stress of your duties is with my fingers or spike shoved up your valve.”

He knows it’s harsh, and he doesn’t care. With a last few plunges, he licks a long stripe up the audial, scraping his denta against it. The snapping feedback and sensations from his head alone are just light yet rough enough to send some intense signals, and Optimus shouts as his valve clenches on those still moving fingers, spurting more lubricant.

“Yeah, that’s it…” Megatron cooes in a low voice, thrusts his hand a few more times as Optimus peaks in a minor overload. Optimus is grabbing his shoulders and panting hot air as his valve only opens up more. The magnetic atmosphere between them is crackling from building and spending charge, and Optimus finds that his body is not relieved in the slightest.

“Please, Megatron,” he moans and lets his helm fall back to the pillows on the berth, arms going slack. Megatron should be disgusted at the desperate state of his proud enemy, that he’d let himself get like this, but the war was too long and there’s no longer time for aging mechs like them to be petty about fairness. They all take what they can get in their new world, a world that is long since moving past mech like them. He doesn’t want to admit that all they have is each other in mutual mindset, but with a reputation like theirs, loneliness is not far away at most times. Megatron tries not to think about it too much, instead enjoying the brief release that it brings when they come together. They are one alike and two sides of the same coin in the spiral of their history.

 

Megatron is crooking his fingers, and rubs at the inner nodes of Optimus’ wet valve slowly, keeping his charge at level. While Optimus begins squirming again, he’s ends up grinding a thigh against the dark plating of Megatron’s pelvis.

Megatron allows a groan to slip free, and pressurizes his aching- but not forgotten- spike, pushing and rubbing it against the juncture of Optimus’ leg. He keeps at it for a moment, still lighting up the valve around his fingers all the while. Taking Optimus like this is work, but it’s also reward.

With a final push of his fingers, Megatron withdraws and leans over Optimus, prone on the berth except for his hands harshly gripping the covering. Megatron takes his own spike in one hand, stroking to smear the lubricants over it. He grunts at the small relief of the motion, and uses the other hand to grab Optimus hard by the chin, forcing his helm forward.

“Look at me,” he growls on the edge of a low groan, still stroking his spike. He sees Optimus’ optics flicker down to watch his hand hungrily, and then back up at his face. Megatron knows he’s getting restless, _needy_.

“You’re good at giving orders, Optimus. Mechs will listen to you in any situation,” Megatron says, stare intense, “but like I said, you’re good at following orders too.”

Hand his on his chin, he feels Optimus nod his head in minute movements, almost barely perceptible.

“And my order now, is that you’re going to turn around and take my spike without question, right?”

And almost before he’s done speaking, Optimus’ engine gives a hard rev and he’s flipped himself over onto his hands and knees.

“I’ll take whatever you give me, just…” Optimus trails off a moment as he feels a hand on his aft and Megatron’s thumb pulling his valve lips open. He feels the crimson stare purposely trained on his array and it’s degrading but he can’t help but feel like his fuel lines are molten when he does it. This is his penance to himself, and yet he feels as though he’s overindulging at the same time.

Megatron looks up at Optimus’ half-turned face and gives his aft a rough slap, which jolts his whole frame.

“Yes? Were you going to say something, or are you too needy to be fragged now?” he says in that sardonic tone. Optimus _hates_ how it goes straight to his array. If they’d had this arrangement during the war, he’d never have lived through all the nasty comments Megatron threw his way.

Then again, he’d also never live through their close-quarters combat either.

He turns to look back at Megatron over his shoulder, optics dim, “Just make it rough.”

Megatron only chuckles, narrowing his stare.

“Oh, you know I wouldn’t have you any other way, soldier.” and with that, he pushes his spike in, jamming it halfway to quickly pull out and move in with one smooth slide. Optimus lets out a loud, whimpering cry, fists clenching to creak the metal. Megatron isn’t small by any means, and his valve feels like it’s on fire, but he doesn’t protest. He couldn’t if he wanted to, his body is so attuned to the warbuild above him.

“Mmmph,” Megatron groans out at the heady and wet pressure around his spike. “You never disappoint me, Optimus.” and he laughs to himself, an irony of a statement brought to life. Leaning his bulk over Optimus’ back, he’s wrapping an arm around his torso. With a low murmur, he angles his head down. “You never disappoint anyone, and you know that. You know that and you continue to tear yourself down for _selfish_ reasons.”

He knows there’s many complicated things going on in Optimus’ processor, but he says it anyway. Breaking him down to build him back up is the irony of Megatron’s existence but a duty nonetheless.

As he pulls out and begins thrusting in slow increments, Megatron lets out a punched out breath. There’s no feeling like dominating someone, especially in the berth, and he finds that the experience is far and in between these days. Reputation aside, he _could_ ask certain mech for some mutual relief, but Megatron dreadfully realized he’s afraid to find out how anyone else compares to Optimus at this point.

 

He feels the other mech push his aft back as his thrusts begin to pick up pace, sliding smoothly with the amount of lubricant seeping out of that intoxicatingly blue valve.

Optimus’ vents are coming faster and his heavy engine revs with each hard thrust. His optics are a dim blue now, entirely unfocused, his processor nearly shutting down but for the pleasure of the moment. Megatron is moving to grip those exhaust stacks with one hand, using the other to pin Optimus’ hands in front of him. His body is entirely under Megatron’s control, and he wouldn’t want it any different just then.

Megatron’s heavy spike is lighting up all the nodes in his valve, prefluid conducting their joined charges deliciously as he fucks his rival.

He lets out a breathy groan, picking up the pace even more, the plating of his dark hips clanging harshly against Optimus’ stark white. He loves the paint transfers that always end up there.

Optimus is moaning weakly beneath him, giving over completely. His valve clenching and lubricating as the thrusts increase in power. He gasps when a deep node is hit, his body jerking.

Megatron tightens his grasp on Optimus, circling his hips into that tight valve. His thighs are flush to the other’s as his heavy frame overtakes him.

There are no words exchanged for a while, just the loud sound of their individual engines- both entirely different in build, yet complimenting each other in intensity. Their venting is harsh in the small room, only broken by the deep, increasingly frequent groans.

 

Optimus is jerked out of his daze when Megatron stops briefly to flip him onto his back in a show of strength. His hands are now on those white hips, using the leverage to fuck into him this way. It’s not as deep, but the sudden exposure has Optimus keening, charge ramping up. He doesn’t even think when his mask splits open to reveal his gasping mouth.

Megatron is panting himself now, optics locked on Optimus’ face; his _regrettably handsome_ face. Megatron’s seen it before of course, but it always strikes him the most when he’s gasping and flushed, that overwhelmed expression always turning him on more.

Without using his processor for the second time that night, he’s surging down to capture that mouth in the messiest kiss, picking up the movement of his hips again and they both moan into each other. Optimus jumps at the touch, but instantaneously melts into that devilish mouth. Their glossa tangle, charge crackling off their mouths. Megatron pushes harder into him and his mouth sloppy but domineering. He’s using a hand to rub at those blue audials in just the way that he knows Optimus likes. He feels the pressure around his spike get even wetter, if it’s even possible. Optimus’ legs raise up to rest against his hips and he’s weakly gripping Megatron’s sides and shoulder pauldrons. This new instance is powerful and their fields are chaotic in unique ways; it’s unfamiliar yet increasingly pleasing in their pursuit to just _forget_.

 

“Look at you,” Megatron pants as he pulls away to gaze down at Optimus, not ceasing the movement of his hips. “Proud and respected leader of the Autobots, here in the berth of a Decepticon. You can do better than this, you were built to do so much _good_.”

And it’s almost melancholy in the way he says it. He knows he _can’t do better_ , because they’re both fragged up mechs, remnants from a war that scourged their world.

Optimus is staring wide-eyed at his counterpart, as if he’s never seen him before. Megatron returns that stare without hesitation, setting his jaw as he slows his thrusts down to hard grinding, punishing pace. The edge of his array rubs hard against Optimus’ swollen valve lips and node, and he arches into the sensation. Their eyes are still locked.

“M-Megatron…”

Optimus’ hand is tight on his shoulder, clenching hand almost rippling the metal. Megatron has to shutter his optics. Intimate. _Too intimate._ “Don’t.” he then groans out between gritted denta. “ _Primus_ , don't say anything else.”

And his spark is becoming uneasy and soft on the edges in a way he doesn’t like, not at all. He’s already done too many highly regrettable things tonight. He isn’t ready to talk just yet.

 

Megatron speeds up again, not letting himself enjoy that sweet, slow burn. Their engines roar in tandem, frames arching and coming together in a cacophony of grinding metal. Megatron steadies his grip on those white hips, thrusting with purpose.

Under him, Optimus is moaning quietly, now lost in his processor with the pace Megatron sets. He doesn’t even pay attention when Megatron is sliding a hand up the red plating of his chest to rub at his seams. Small arcs of charge crack under his fingers as he teases the frame he’s become too uncomfortably familiar with. Optimus whines when a finger traces his flank where the sensitive metal of a frequently used transformation plate lies.

Megatron is watching the conflicted expressions on his partner’s face; Optimus has his optics shuttered tight, mouth set in a hard line. He almost looks uncomfortable, but the pleased noises escaping his vocalizer tell otherwise. The sight has Megatron’s spike twitching and he’s _so close_ , his chest feels tight and his hips are stuttering.

“Come on,” he murmurs as his thumb is trailing down to rub at Optimus’ anterior node in a quick circular pattern. “You gonna come for me, Optimus? I know you can.” And it’s not entirely a gibe.

Optimus is panting and trying not to thrash his helm back and forth he’s so wound up.

Megatron is pounding into him with abandon now and has to use an arm to brace his frame as he works his hips. His hot ex-vents have condensation beading on his plating.

Within a few more heavy thrusts, Megatron’s overload hits him by surprise, quietly moaning as his processor shorting out for a moment and his hips astill move in short, jerky movements. He distantly hears Optimus moan too as his spike empties hot into him, and Megatron quickens his hand movements on that node.

Optimus has his head tilted back, entirely focusing on that small point of pleasure. He always has such a hard time going completely over that edge, his fragged processor tripping him up.

He wants to yell _please_ and _don’t stop touching me, Megatron_ but he knows it would ruin the moment. He feels Megatron’s hot and heavy frame draped over his, spike spurting that last bit of transfluid into his already wet valve. The finger on his node is slippery and relentless. There’s distant murmuring by his helm as those fingers stroke him into his final overload as well. Optimus’ frame goes taut a moment and he lets out a short shout, valve rhythmically clenching down hard.

Megatron grunts as his depressurizing spike is squeezed again, and swiftly removes himself. He knows when Optimus begins to get over sensitive and takes his hand away to move off of his frame with a final, _indulgent_ , kiss to his neck.

“Mmm, yes. That was charming.” _Beautiful,_ he stops himself from saying.

 

At this point Optimus is in a different daze as his processor is still warm and buzzing. With great effort Megatron has to shove himself to the side before he gets too drowsy and does something else he’ll regret.

He’s used to Optimus not speaking while still being on that edge of consciousness after they’re finished. At first they both felt it was the uncanny reality of what they’d done, but Megatron knows it takes a bit for him to right himself, get back into that regular, _Prime_ state of mind.

Optimus puts himself through a lot in these meetings and yet it always ends up somewhat cathartic. If this arrangement is healthy or not, he couldn’t fully say. Megatron feels as though a weight momentarily lifts from his spark while at the same time something new and uncomfortable wedges itself there. For an old mech, he finds himself not yet wanting to discover that side.

 

The end of their meetings always go the same; once they’re done, Megatron leaves for his washracks, courteously offering Optimus the spare one and some energon, and Optimus is always gone by the time he returns. Simple and concise.

Now that they’ve foolishly ended up in the berthroom, Megatron isn’t sure what step to take next. He could just leave the room like always, but leaving his once enemy in his own berth is just a thought that he would not like to dwell on.

Lounging on the berth, he counts down his venting until it’s normal, while Optimus is still lying prone. Their frames tick with the built heat and still-crackling atmosphere. When the red mech’s plating clicks and clicks, and his frame shifts up in a more dignified position, he knows Optimus is his stoic self once again and has to resist an inner sneer. But the heavy electromagnetic field surrounding them in the berthroom feels uneasy and tense. Like there’s a hesitation in the natural movement and pulse of it.

 

“You know,” the voice startles Megatron out of his dissipating post-interface stupor. He tilts his heavy helm in a way indicating he’s listening, but doesn’t meet those daringly blue optics. The haze is quickly leaving, and his plating feels twitchy now.

“I always recharge better after we meet like this.”

And Megatron _does_ flip his helm to stare now. He tries not to have an awed-enraged expression on his faceplates.

Optimus is still reclined, propping himself up on one elbow. His optics are more focused and clear now. Body attentive, his audials are straight up and he’s looking at the mech sharing the berth.

Megatron swallows down the irritation because _what is he supposed to say to that?_

“Ah, well…” and he really can’t think of what to say to the Prime, the pit-spawned dashing mech.

 

“It’s true,” Optimus turns his head away. He hesitates a moment. His hand is rubbing at the white plating of a thigh.

“Thank you for doing this. For always agreeing to.”

Megatron just makes a noncommittal grunt, but inside his processor is racing. _Damn fool…_

And he’s saying “ _Of course_ ” before he can stop himself, still staring at Optimus, and still dumbfounded.

Optimus makes a binary hum, a with a hint of a soft smile on his face. Megatron cannot look at him and quickly gets up for the washracks without a single glance back at the mech on his berth. Usual protocol it is, then.

He doesn’t hear anything else once the solvent begins pouring over his slightly vibrating frame. _Damn that mech!_ His processor echoes. Never in his functioning life has he felt this sort of… _anxiety_. He clenches a fiat against the slick wall and rests his helm there while the warm solvent runs down his frame, erasing all the evidence of his evening.

Back to normal, as always.

 

* * *

 

When Megatron returns to his berthroom, it’s empty as he hoped. He ex-vents a sigh before checking the rest of his place, and arranging himself on the berth. Exhaustion escapes him and it’s irritating. Usually his old frame is easily ready for recharge after a night like that. A short game of dominance and overload shouldn’t leave a repressive presence on his processor.

The war is over and yet Megatron still feels like he’s fighting.

 

As he tries to position himself more comfortably and shutter his optics, something out of place in his visual feed catches his attention.

A sole data pad on the nightstand. Blue and silver metal, standard issue design.

Curiosity to novelty trumping his safety, Megatron reaches for the device and powers it on. He wouldn’t think Optimus this clumsy as to leave belongings behind. _Unless it was a scheme,_ although they’re long past that.

When the screen fades on, Megatron’s optics widen. Loaded on the data pad is a good amount of personally written documents; prose _and_ a bit of poetry. And a small note in the corner.

 

“ _For you, old friend.”_

 

**Author's Note:**

> Megatron and Optimus have some weird feelings they need to sort out, probably.
> 
> come yell at me about robots // [Twitter](https://twitter.com/baddigital)


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